The Cross to My Heart
by tempus terere
Summary: They heard something rip, but they didn't care. — AshPaul
1. solanums

**title: **the cross to my heart  
**warnings:** homosexuality ahead. also, Ash tops.  
**notes:** my first time writing slash, so do leave concrit.  
**dedicated to:** samia, my dear wifey.

1.—solanums

You meet him in a train.

That's nothing out of the ordinary and at first you don't really give him that much attention, either. He's just another smidge of black and white in the background.

But as the ride goes on, at some point, you find yourself staring at him. You watch as he slowly gains one colour after the other.

It starts with his hair. You don't know why or how it works but apparently there can be two kinds of black. The first is a bleak, dreary sort of type. The second is too strong and intense for words to describe.

The next are his eyes, a warm soil brown, then his skin, it kind of almost blinds you, until all of him is fully coloured out, and you wonder.

You think, you muse.

And come to the conclusion that he must be the most disgusting person on the entire planet.

He's laughing; fooling around with his friends and you're nearly sure that there isn't a situation in which he doesn't smile.

You are here with your brother, stuffed in dark suits neither of you have worn in years, on the way to your father's funeral. Quite frankly, you don't really care about it, because it's more of a hassle to you than anything else. And it's not like you really knew him or anything.

The next time you shoot him a glance, he looks at you. It's then you decide you hate him. Such a pathetic loser, you think, because you can. Instead pitying you he should worry about himself.

You don't know what gave it away, even though you're quite certain it was your outfits. Normally, people only wear black suits for formal events and, considering the heavy silence between you and your brother, it's no surprise that he believes you need compassion.

It makes you angry, indescribably angry and you feel the urge to punch him until your far too white dress shirt is soaked scarlet with his blood.

Red. Deep, thick red. It has always been your favourite colour and sometimes you dream you drown in it.


	2. shots behind your conscious

2.—shots behind your conscious

You're still watching him, silently, discreetly, constantly. (It's not like you have anything better to do, anyway.) He's standing up now, still smiling, and goes in the direction of the toilet. As if on cue, the train drives a curve when he passes your seat and, of course, he loses his balance and falls onto you with his whole weight.

Within the blink of an eye, he's steadied himself again and smiles sheepishly. Hydrochloric acid slowly makes its way up your throat. (It's not something you're unfamiliar with—smiles always make you sick in the stomach, especially genuine ones.)

"I'm sorry," he says, and sends you that look again.

(Pathetic. Useless. Hateful.)

You are dizzy and nauseous and lusting for blood.

"Hey, you OK?" he asks, radiating concern. You want to vomit on him, preferably right in the face, yet you can't. But you can take the immense pleasure of punching him in the throat and watching him struggle for breath.

Immediately, the entire train is thrown into a turmoil; women gasp, shocked, and the men are split up in uncertainty and the temptation of joining in.

You don't care. (You didn't expect anything less.)

Now his friends come running to him, all of them evidently frightened and furious at you. But he doesn't let them help him. His eyes are glowing with revenge, causing you almost to gag with delight. He's more revolting than you assumed.

He dives at you and you can hear something thud but there's no opportunity to check if it's Reggie's water bottle or your head.

Before it can escalate into a real brawl, Reggie intervenes and stops you, and his hands are cold against the hot, contracted skin of your shoulders. Even through your clothes.

In retrospect, it's no wonder someone called the police and you land in the closest station. The officer tells you and Ash—that's his name—will have to pay for the broken window and the crimson stains in the seats, but otherwise he's willing to let you go this time.

When you're outside again, he holds out his right hand for a truce, but you just ignore him and pretend it didn't feel refreshing to break loose and throw a tantrum after years of good composure.


	3. alarmingly quiet

3.—alarmingly quiet

Three days later you receive a call from an unknown number.

"Hello," you say and hope that, if it's a sales representative, your tone will be enough to intimidate them into leaving you alone.

"Hey," someone says and it takes you a couple of moments to classify the voice.

You hang up.

The phone immediately rings again. Too curious to resist, you answer it.

"How did you get my number?" you ask.

"It was on your form for the police," he says and, you guess, it kind of makes sense. "Why can't we just make up?" he wants to know then, and you wonder whether he's smiling right now or whether he's bothered by your attitude or whether he's feeling anything at all.

* * *

The next day he stands on your doorstep.

You're not quite sure what to make of this so you settle on questioning the obvious. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to make up with you," he answers and looks disgustingly determined. But he doesn't smile, which, somehow, manages to startle you.

So you slam the door in his face.

Predictably enough, he starts knocking and banging at your door right away and he yells, and you're the biggest coward he has seen, ever, and can you even look at yourself in the mirror anymore. You clench your fists behind your back where he can't see.

Maybe he's right, you think, as you go to sleep, but it doesn't make much difference even if he's not.


	4. knightly books

4.—knightly books

After a week has passed, he shows up at your university and you're nearly certain it was Reggie who let the information slip.

You stand in the middle of the hallway where everyone can see you and it's a real shame because that means you can't punch him in the face like you're tempted to.

"So this is where you're studying," he says and grins with his eyes glued to everything but you. "It's pretty cool here. What are you—"

"Go home," you suggest. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he finally asks, looking like it required great physical and mental effort only to open his mouth.

"It doesn't matter," you say, because it does, and you honestly have no answer. To you he's just sickening in every human possible way.

And then you leave him, since you've had enough of him, and that's it.

That's it.


	5. festival of the phoenix

**notes:** don't despair, the next chapters are going to be longer.

5.—festival of the phoenix

Days; months; seasons go by until you meet again.

* * *

For a new job you've travelled up to Pallet Town, a peaceful, small place in the west of Kanto.

"_Heartnet, is that you?_"

It's just Murphy's Law and your luck that it's his hometown.

You're at a loss as to what to do, thus you attempt to ignore him and walk away. Naturally, it doesn't work and he kicks you in the shins for good measure. To return the favour, you decide on punching him the face like you wanted to the last time you saw him. In the resulting fight, you break three houses' fences and ruin two gardens and he keeps on reminding you how he isn't going to pay for any of it.

"I wanna ask you something," he says afterwards. "What are you even doing here? I can't imagine that you've come to visit me." He kicks the dirt distractedly. "Also, you fight like a girl."

"I work here," is all what you have to respond to that and stand up, dusting off your jeans.

"Really," he says and shoots you a suspicious look. He somewhat seems a lot rougher and less happy-go-lucky-ish than you remember. "As what?"

"I am not accountable to you," you say, because you're not. Not to a stranger like him, anyway.


	6. a fairy's luck

6.—a fairy's luck

The spots where your upper jaw links with its lower counterpart work like meteorological measuring instruments. With a dragging, dull sort of ache they announce reliably every change in the weather.

You watch the deceptively blue sky and stop photographing for a moment. Only an aura of sultriness assures you that your jaw is correct. At last tonight a thunderstorm, probably along with hail showers, will be raging over the town.

You put your camera back into your rucksack. Then you turn around and walk back to the hotel.

On your way the trees that line the way on both sides generously donate their shadows to you—a nice change from the humid heat down at the beach, where it's hot despite the (usually) maritime climate.

You decide to rest under a large beech and take a sip from your water bottle. For a moment, you close your eyes and listen to the trees' rustle. Then you say, "Come out."

It was neither very loud nor firm, but you're sure he's heard it either way.

A few seconds pass and then you can hear his steps, fallen branches cracking violently under his feet.

"You found out, huh," he says, as he sits down beside you, and you imagine him grin, unsure of what to do or say next.

"You weren't exactly subtle," you say and try your best not to sound as worn out as you think you do.

He chuckles gently. And it's funny because you don't really feel like throwing up on him at all. You conclude it must be due to your lack of sleep in the past few days and, for now, let it go as a unique slip-up on your part.

"Leave me alone," you still tell him. And he still doesn't listen.

"What's your problem, Heartnet?" he asks with this undertone again. This strangely hurt tone mixed with a touch of accusation.

"You," you say and that's just how you are. You can't escape a trap so tempting to jump into.

"But why?" he shouts. You hit a nerve. "I don't get it! What did I do to deserve being hated by you?"

This, if nothing else, irritates you. "Why does this even bother you so much?"

He looks at you as if you've grown another eye. Then he stands up and promptly kicks you in the face.

"You know what, Heartnet," he snarls and on his face this kind of attitude looks more than just a little misplaced. "You're an asshole."

"And you're a loser," you shoot back and stand up, too. If he wants a fight, then you're more than happy to provide him with one.

He laughs, but it sounds hollow. "Interesting to hear that from you," he says scornfully. "A guy who does nothing but taking photos all day. I bet it's not even a real job—"

You lunge at him and mercilessly tackle him to the ground. You keep punching him wildly and without aim until he gets the upper hand and manages to sit you down. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth on your face, as your very own runs from your nose hotly backwards down your throat. The only sound is your uneven breathing, while everything else seems to stand still. You don't want to look at him but he's so close that he would notice at once if you tried to avoid him and you just can't give him this really cheap sort of victory. So you knock him off. Shakily you get back on your feet.

"Never follow me again," you warn, but it's more of a threat than anything else.

"Go fuck yourself," he says and you pretend he's simply another pebble out of thousand on the dusty road.


	7. struck by thunder

7.—struck by thunder

He still goes after you every day; watches you while you photograph the buildings, the people or special places in and around the village. He even follows you down to the beach, where you withdraw yourself to after work.

On the third day he asks, "Why do you always take pictures of the sea?"

"Shut up," you say, because it's a wonderful all-purpose reply to use with him.

"C'mon," he nags. "It's just a simple question!"

"You really have no concept of privacy, do you?"

He frowns at this and absentmindedly begins to throw little rocks into the water. It's dark green here at Pallet, at some places almost black, and hardly dangerous or wild. It reminds you of ink. Perhaps that's why you like it and keep coming back here.

"It calms me," you say quietly.

Probably, you estimate due to the following lack of response, he hasn't listened to you at all.

* * *

When you arrive at the edge of the town, he says, "You know, if your personality were just a little bit less shitty, we could be friends."

You halt abruptly and scowl at him with the eyes of a snake. Slowly you walk over to him until your faces are only centimetres apart from each other. "I hate that word," you hiss, every syllable soaked with fatal venom.

It doesn't kill him.

"Stop acting like such a girl," he shouts after you, as you slump down under the nearest tree. "Been hurt or what—"

"Shut up," you say again, without much force, and slam your head against the trunk. You hope the physical pain will ease your powerlessness. "Just leave me alone."

For a while, you stay there, slouched down and breathing exhaustedly, while he stands on the other side of the street and writes his name in the dirt. And then, then you close your eyes and don't care anymore, and he picks you up and pulls you in.


	8. hunched glutton

**notes:** I have posted two one-shots: one for Coldcoffeeshipping and one for Soulsilvershipping. I now invite you shamelessly to try them out.

8.—hunched glutton

You wake up in a room you don't recognise and in which it's warm and soothingly quiet. You remember dreaming something. Faint flickers of a ship that drowns in a sea of ink and the honourable captain that takes you with him.

(_Deeper, deeper. Almost there._)

You stand up and open the door to leave. The rest of the house is just as peaceful, you notice, as you walk downstairs. Shutting your eyes, you let your fingers slide over the cool wood of the banister. It's nothing like home.

(_But don't ever look back_.)

When you arrive in the living room, you see him sprawled on the sofa, snoring. If he moved any more to the left, he'd probably fall off. You sit down on the coffee table and watch him. You don't know why you do, but something inside of you is drawn to him through some kind of magnetic effect you haven't quite figured out yet. And you're not capable of comprehending why he did this or why he can't accept your hatred toward him.

(_There's no reason to be afraid_.)

You stay there for almost an hour and then decide you should leave before he wakes up and you end up having to talk to him. It, most likely, would be even better if you not only left the house, but Pallet altogether, you reckon, yet something causes you to hesitate at the doorframe.

(_No, no, no, don't look back!_)

You dare one last glance on the mahogany stairs. They shimmer golden under the rays of the morning sun.

* * *

You're not particularly surprised when he stands in front of your door one week later.

"Why did you leave, asshole?" He demands and glares at you angrily.

"How did you find me?" you ask back. Your head feels like it's about split at least in half.

"Is that even important right now?" he yells and throws his hands up in the air. He looks painfully alive, whereas you're nothing more than a walking corpse.

"Go away," you tell him.

"No," he bellows, his voice cracking at parts. "No, I'm not like you!"

Hearing this feels like losing an arm. In a very excruciating, bloody sort of way. You don't want to feel this; experience this pain. This is the type of agony that you swore would never get you. But now he's here and every breath you take could be your last. You're tired of this all, you don't want to fight over nothing anymore. (You're almost as pathetic as he looks.) All you want is to fall asleep. And maybe never wake up again.

* * *

You're not entirely sure how you ended up here on this old couch with him hovering over you and it's hard to concentrate on thinking when he's doing … _this_, while from behind the springs dig themselves into your back. He doesn't kiss you; just licks your earlobe (weird, because it tickles), mouths your neck (unusual) and caresses the wounds he gave you (nice). But you never kiss. It's like an unspoken rule, a line never to be crossed.

You don't know who initiated it, although, you guess, it doesn't really matter. Because now it's not only nice but nicer and then it gets even better until it's close to phenomenal and then it just is.

And all you have to do is lie there and breathe. It's not hard. You can do that.

Inhale. You close your eyes. Exhale. He takes his hand out of your boxers. Inhale. It touches your face. Exhale. You hear a voice saying that it's all right. You just have to lie still and breathe.

You can do that.


	9. the dagger in romeo's hand

9.—the dagger in romeo's hand

He stays with you, scrounging himself through your fridge, while _you're_ freelancing yourself from one job to the other. But neither of you says anything about it. You don't really say anything at all. He just occasionally talks about stuff he's heard or seen in the news, and did you hear about that terrible accident just a day ago, but it's never something of significance.

Until one day at the end of August.

"Hey, Heartnet," he says and stares down in his empty cup of coffee. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

For a millisecond, you freeze, but then you continue washing the dishes and say, "Good for you."

This doesn't seem to be the kind of answer he anticipated. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again before anything can slip out. You remain this way for you don't know how long—maybe a few minutes or maybe ten—you don't count the seconds (anymore).

"I'm a sailor on the MS Anne," he finally settles on saying, as though you wanted to know. "You know, I have a responsibility."

* * *

At nightfall, when you go to sleep and he already lies on his side of the bed, you break the silence.

"Remember how I told you that I'm not accountable to you?" you ask and he pulls the blanket over his head to muffle what you have to say. "The same goes for you."

* * *

The next morning you're woken up by the sound of a door being violently thrown shut.


	10. 1000 kelvin tonight

10.—1000 kelvin tonight

As the months pass away, you find yourself always going back to Pallet, standing at the edge of the beach where you can the see the best how the sea and the horizon meet. (And perhaps, you think, a ship will be there, too, one day.)

You don't return to Veilstone for too long because the city is thick and heavy and your flat so much smaller without him.

It's funny. You'd think it would be the other way around.

* * *

He comes back on Christmas Eve.

It's night, eleven or so, and you're on your way back to the hotel. From afar you can make out a figure slowly coming your way. You'll never figure out how but it figures you know at once who it is.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His cheeks are glowing scarlet red and his breath is forming little puffs of white.

"Nothing," you say.

"But it's Christmas," he says and on a twisted, emotional kind of level, you have to admit, he's making sense.

And then he has the temerity to take of his glove and stroke your cheek, like you're some sort of lonely woman. So you kiss him. For payment.

A moment later you cannot help to (almost) regret that you've wasted your time with eating, sleeping, breathing and fighting when you could have been doing this.

Mouths still at each other, you make your way to his house and proceed to spend the rest of the night with eating unhealthy amounts of turkey and fucking in his way too small bed that may have fit him when he was twelve. You've been thinking about doing that with him for a while now and he, as well, from time to time looked like he at least considered it.

For both of you it's the first time doing it this way, but it turns out decent enough.

"Damn, Heartnet," he says afterwards and grins broadly. It's been a while since you've seen him do that. "Didn't know you cared."

You didn't, either. It's certainly something to think about.

Another thing to think about would be the question just when he has managed to become such a significant part of your life. It's strange for you to have this ubiquitous 'he' everywhere in your mind; to have to care enough to take the initiative for once and still be yourself somehow. (Whatever that means.)

It's unfamiliar but you feel yourself getting used to it over the years.

* * *

Living, and dreaming of a large tanker emerging from the fringe of the ocean, as the sun sets behind it. The jet-black water sparkles with thousands of different patterns of colours, as does his hair, and when you see him waving you feel something tug at your lips and—

"Let's go home, moron."

FIN.


End file.
